Sociopath Does Not Rhyme With Love, John
by caliginousAfterlife
Summary: The detective found comfort in the feeling of the nicotine pulsing through and energizing his veins, and John's small breaths cooling the nook of his neck, and the way his body was so susceptible to comfort in John's arms and the way his mind... ...Would just stop all its insufferable thinking. Johnlock Drabbles (300-1000 characters each) Warning: spoilers, smut, fluff.
1. Profound Awareness

**I. Profoundly Aware**

Sherlock Holmes was positive he had gone over every possible outcome of meeting with Moriarty in private. His brain worked like clockwork, mapping out every exit and entrance to the pool with deadly accuracy; every potential hiding place and attack strategy thought over in advance; mind smoothing over every fault in what soon became what he thought was another flawless plan, but when Dr. John Watson emerged from the door closest to him with explosives strapped to the inside of a coat that did not belong to him, Sherlock's statistics, and confidence, and heart crumpled like nothing he'd ever experienced before. And as he tried desperately to cling to these fading fragments of once brilliant thoughts, he could not tear his eyes away from John, and he could not stop the slightest feeling of anxiety from crawling up his legs, and weighing him down.

And John spoke. He spoke words that did not belong to him, and the only indication of his fear was the slight waver in his voice when his own name left his lips and told of a doom so confidently that it sounded inevitable. And John looked Sherlock directly in eyes and it was as if every part of his being was screaming, "_Sherlock, run_."

And when Moriarty finally emerged from the furthest door, cocky and crazy, bearing with him the bittersweet denotation that differed psychopath from sociopath, with a voice that was so obnoxious that it aided in keeping the detective from his thoughts, and Sherlock had to fight to keep his gun hand from wavering because not only had Moriarty forced the detective to dance for his amusement, but this man had set his vile hands on something so personal – Sherlock's only friend.

The detective offered what he thought to be the key, a small black flash-drive, and when John flexed his military trained arm around the murder's neck, with all the bravery and feelings in the world pouring out of his eyes and aimed directly at – the aggressively undeserving – Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock felt his heart lurch, as if all the heartstrings he never believed in were tugged all at once by the familiar, rough hands of John Watson.

That was when Sherlock Holmes became profoundly aware that John Watson was indispensable, and that he himself would rather die than watch John embody the sacrificial lamb, so willing throw himself upon the alter and cease to exist, and the jumbled mess that had taken refuge in Sherlock's mind finally came together, beginning the transformation into real, actual thoughts because in that exactly moment, John's life was on the line, and Sherlock could not bear to see him go.


	2. An Intimate Observation

**II. An Intimate Observation**

The first time Sherlock Holmes and John Watson made love, the sex was awkward and timid and filled with exactly four exclamations of, "_Damnit, Sherlock_", and two statements similar to, "_You're thinking too hard about it_", as well as one, "_John, are you positive that this is the correct method_?" countered immediately by "_shut up, Sherlock_". Of course, Sherlock was positive of all these calculations since he _had_, after all, been counting – what else could one do to keep his mind busy during an act as savage as sexual intercourse – as well as studying the way John blushed and squirmed under Sherlock's shameless gaze. He thought briefly of conducting strictly observational research on the ratio of John's level of embarrassment to the amount of sexual experiences the two shared together, but pushed the thoughts out that hectic brain of his because there was approximately a 79.28% chance of John catching on and spoiling his results, and that was a bigger chance than Sherlock typically liked taking.

Another thing Sherlock typically liked was _not_ participating in the setting of a routine for himself.

John first caught on to Sherlock's odd behavior the second time the two participated in an intimate act. Although Dr. Watson did not yet know Sherlock's motives, he _did_ notice Sherlock's stares which would go on for nearly minutes at a time, only interrupted when another article of John's clothing was removed. Sure, it wasn't necessarily _odd_ of Sherlock to stare for long periods of time and with undisclosed reasons, but, in _bed,_ with John _naked_? Now that was a little uncomfortable to say the least. Nonetheless, the doctor let it continue, seeing no reason not to.

Well, he let it continue until approximately the fifth time the two made love, when Sherlock unintentionally muttered something about John's behavior out loud, the detective having just freed Watson from his pale green long-sleeve shirt.

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" John's tone was overly exasperated as he dropped his head back on the sofa cushion in frustration.

"Hmm?" Sherlock hummed in response, taking advantage of the opportune moment to bite lightly at John's exposed neck.

"You're _experimenting_ on me."

"It's about time you caught on, I was beginning to doubt the level of intelligence I originally thought you to possess." Sherlock responded in his usual monotone, lips brushing lightly against Watson's collar bone.

John rolled his eyes. "And what exactly are you testing?"

"Oh, no. No testing here, just mere observation, John dearest." Sherlock sat up, seemingly satisfied with himself. "I was conducting minor research on your level of embarrassment comparative to the number of sexually intimate acts with shared."

"_My level of embarrassment_?!" John pushed himself up on his elbows, staring up at Sherlock with dark eyes wide in disbelieve.

"Yes, it seemed as though it would be rather enjoyable, and although, there was a mild, unexplained spike in my data the second time around, you have been gradually improving."

"This is absolutely ridiculous." Watson commented mostly to himself, as he processed what had been happening. "Could you at least _warn me_ before transforming me into some sort of abnormally large _lab rat_?"

"Of course, if that simple action would make the news of you being an '_abnormally large lab rat_' easier for you to digest, figuratively." Sherlock sassed, pressing a few kisses down Watson's chest with a little smirk, signifying that he was done with all communication for the night.

John sighed in response, dropping back down onto the bed hopelessly.


	3. A Mildly Upsetting Turn of Events

**III. Mildly Upsetting Turn of Events**

The two men's stifled moans echoed softly off the bedroom walls of Sherlock and John's shared flat. The one and only consulting detective in the world had his hips pressed hard against John's, his strong, calloused hands pinning Watson down against the bed, as the two rocked together with bodies pressed close and hearts beating against one another.

Sherlock had a habit of gnawing at his bottom lip to stifle any of the noises that might escape him, and John had yet to decide if it was cute, or positively annoying. Finally deeming it annoying, he grabbed at the back of Sherlock's neck, determined to put a stop to it. Sherlock's neck was warm under John's hand, and just now moistening with a thin layer of sweat. The detective pried his eyes open responsively, and even now, of all times and places, John could see Sherlock's eyes dart over his figure, analyzing and evaluating the exposed body below him.

"Sherlock," John's gaze crawled up from Sherlock's lips to his eyes with practiced precision. "You're thinking too hard, you –"

"– I know what you're going to say," Sherlock began breathlessly, the pace of his thrusts slowing the slightest. "You're going t-"

John found himself captivated by Sherlock's thick lips, now freed from his teeth and instead tied up in words, and impulsively pulled him into a sloppy kiss, cutting off Sherlock's speech. The detective attempted to talk against John's mouth, but finally shut up and kissed Watson back. "If you know what I'm going to say, there should be no reason to reiterate." The doctor mumbled against his lover's lips, and when Sherlock could not grace this comment with a response, John smirked victoriously.

Sherlock stirred his hips again, sure to brush against the John's _spot_, and an embarrassingly high pitched moan escaped the doctor's lips. The detective smiled wide, and just as he leaned in to press another kiss against Watson's parted lips, he froze, eyes wide, hovering mere inches above John's mouth. John quirked a brow in annoyance, rutting his hips back against Sherlock's, in high hopes that it would bring Sherlock back from whatever planet his thoughts just blasted off to.

"…. That's _it_!" Sherlock nearly shouted after what Watson assumed to be only a few seconds, although, to the impatient doctor, it felt like an eternity.

"… What's _it_, exactly?" John questioned, impatience growing exponentially. "And is it really so important that you had to – " Before John could even finish his sentence, he felt the warmth of his lover leave him, and the shock slam into him like a tidal wave as he watched Sherlock hurry to scoop his clothing from the floor where it had been discarded only minutes earlier.

"_Wh-what_?!" Watson stammered, completely dumbfounded. He bolted up to a sitting position, his brain still attempting to process what was happening, his gaze moving up and down Sherlock's body in disbelieve. "Sherlock, you have _got_ to be kidding me."

"I cannot recall a time in which I have ever 'kid' you like this before, John." Sherlock responded breathlessly as he slid into his briefs.

"But- But _Sherlock_!"

"Married to my job, Watson," The detective called as he disappeared through the bedroom door and was took off in the general direction of the living room. "Married to my job!"

John's jaw literally dropped. He watched the barren doorway for a few seconds, nearly expecting Sherlock to be joking, before sliding into his own briefs and trousers, and following after him.

Not to Watson's surprise, he located Sherlock standing over his desk, looking through the papers of a recent case, and mumbling wildly to himself, one leg pulled hap-hazardously into the wrong side of his trousers, and his shirt half tugged over his shoulder.

"Absolutely unbelievable." Watson mumbled, motioning weakly at Sherlock. "I cannot even begin to wrap my head around what just happened."

"No, absolutely believable, indeed. I've just solved another piece of this puzzle, and I've got to test it." The detective responded as he righted his clothing. "And," he continued. "I do not suggest you wrap your head around anything; the human skull, or any skull for that matter, is not made for such plasticity, Dr. Watson."

"_'Dr. Watson'_." John scoffed. "I see we're back to the formalities." He sighed, suddenly accusing. "And you know damn well that was a figure of speech."

Sherlock turned to face Watson as he pulled his arms into the sleeves of his peacoat, a chipper smile tugging his lips back to reveal straight, white teeth. In just a few long strides he crossed the room – closing the distance between the two, and took John's face in his long fingers. "I'm so close to solving this case I can almost taste it." He mumbled through his grin and pressed a sloppy, unexpected kiss against the doctor's lips before his expression dropped. "Why, you're still half naked, John. If you don't mind, we _do_ have a cab to catch."

John rolled his eyes, but couldn't stop the chuckle from escaping his lips. "Sherlock, you truly are too much sometimes."

"I believe that I am just enough of all the right things, now hurry up and gather your clothing. I won't wait here forever, John, and a cab sure as hell won't either."


	4. Positive Reinforcement

**IV. Positive Reinforcement **

"Well the case is solved and now it's straight back to being bored." Sherlock stated with the typical amount of false enthusiasm that he usually carried in his tone, as he and Watson pushed through the door to their shared flat.

John sighed in response, clearing a chair of the files stacked on it, and easing himself onto its plush cushion. "Come on, Sherlock." He responded in an exasperated tone. "Doesn't all this… this _crime-solving_ ever get tiresome to you?"

"Trust me, John, I do realize how unethical working on my cases would be if I did it quite literally, 24/7, and I do understand the importance of avoiding such an obsession, but will I ever grow tiresome of it? Quite possibly, though I have yet to as of now, which is all that matters to me in the present."

John rolled his eyes and pulled in a breath to respond, but Sherlock cut him off. "Also, speaking of the present, I do believe I owe you something."

Watson gave Sherlock a questioning look as the taller man approached. "What do you mean, you owe me something? If anything it should be me who's in dept to y– " Without any warning whatsoever, Sherlock dropped to his knees in front of John. "For god's sake, Sherlock what are you – "

" – What does it look like, John?" Sherlock freed his cool fingers from his signature leather gloves and began to rub at John's muscular thighs.

"You could at least _warn_ me." John responded, his voice soft and deep and husky with growing arousal. He shifted, spreading his legs a little wider to give way for Sherlock's ministrations soon to come. Watson examined Sherlock closely with lips parted the slightest, right hand tensing over the arm of the chair as something at the pit of his stomach stirred with arousal. Sherlock was concentrated as usual, perhaps too concentrated for the task at hand, but John could really complain. His hands moved up Watson's thighs, paced and precise and ready.

"I didn't see the point." The detective responded tersely, reaching up at a painfully slow pace, long fingers working the button of Watson's trousers open with ease.

"And what – " Watson swallowed hard, attempting to form words around his excitement, which scattered his thoughts worse than a flock of black birds after the first shot is fired. "What exactly are you, um, paying me back for?"

"Have you already forgotten the events that transpired just prior to us leaving the flat?" Sherlock mumbled, palming John's hardening member through his briefs before finally working to free it from its cotton prison.

John nearly forgot how to speak. "Uh, um… Yes – I mean – no!" the doctor ripped his gaze away from Sherlock's hands to look into his piercingly blue eyes. "If you are, uh… referring to when you bolted out of the bedroom right in the middle of, um– "

"Yes, that is exactly what I'm referring to." Sherlock ran his tongue up John's staff, in a speed that John could only describe has quite possibly the slowest that Sherlock could move.

"Do you know that you are a huge tease?" Watson asked and chuckled anxiously, rolling his hips against Sherlock's hand to gain more friction against his nether regions, which were aching for more attention.

"I probably would have figured it out eventually, had you not been there to remind me every day."


	5. Unbalanced

**V. Unbalanced **

John Watson yawned as he stepped over the boxes of paper work that littered his and Sherlock's living room as cautiously as one could at three in the morning. The detective was turned away, bent over a desk with several of his files open and strewn about before him. Occasionally he'd search frantically for a different page and mumble some words to himself before reaching for another file, and repeating the process. Watson usually wouldn't involve himself when Sherlock was this deeply immersed in his work, but this was the third night in a row that Sherlock was depriving himself of sleep over a case, and selfishly, Watson was bearing the heavy burden of longing weighing him down and pulling at his limbs.

"What are you doing awake, John?" The monotone yet comforting voice carried Sherlock's quiet words to John's ears, the detective's front still facing toward his work on the desk before him.

"I believe it's me who should be asking _you_ that." Watson responded, voice low, and groggy with sleepiness as he approached his lover.

Sherlock's shoulders tensed before John's hands even touched them. Watson flinched, not use to eliciting such an aggressive reaction from the detective. Suddenly, John seemed so foreign, as if he existed on another dimensional plane entirely, as if Sherlock was a stranger.

"What are you doing?"

"Just relax." He mumbled, attempting to stow away his conflicting thoughts of Sherlock's rather violent reaction to his presence. His thumbs began to knead at Sherlock's knotted shoulders, and after a moment, the detective hesitantly relaxed, allowing John to work more thoroughly at the tense spots that covered the back of his neck.

"Come to bed." John cooed comfortingly, continuing to massage Sherlock's shoulders.

"I can't." The detective leaned back, eyes meeting John's. To someone who didn't know him, Sherlock would have sounded all the same, but it was John who could hear all the things left unsaid in his words. The tone of his voice spoke for him, screaming that he was tired, and frustrated, and most of all,

Broken.

Watson's hands traveled over Sherlock's shoulders and began to rub about his chest. "You'll be able to think more clearly in the morning." John mumbled.

Sherlock's gaze followed John's hands down his chest. "Not if you're going to be keeping me up all night."

Watson chuckled, trying to regain his seriousness. "You've been up three nights in a row, cut yourself some slack."

"A consulting detective does not '_cut himself some slack'_, Watson." He retorted curtly.

"_Sherlock_," Watson's voice shook in disbelieve. "You can't possibly be serious. If you keep this up, you're going to work yourself to dea– "

" –John, _please;_" Sherlock spun in his chair to face John very suddenly, causing John's arms to fall back at his sides, and his shoulders to cringe much similarly to the way Sherlock's did minutes earlier. "You're breaking my concentration, and frankly, that was one of the _biggest_ impracticalities I could predict within the idea of being committed to you romantically, besides, of course, all the obvious that I will not waste my time listing. Now, if you will kindly _shut. Up_. And let me continue my work." The anger drained from Sherlock's face almost instantly, little color he actually possessed leaving him before he seemed to remember that breathing was essential to human kind's survival; how little he _behaved _as such species not considered a determining factor to how much he _was_ one. The detective's eyes searched Watson's face frantically as a look of desperation overcame him. For once, he couldn't quite find the words, and his lips wouldn't be able to speak them if he did. Sherlock choked and stuttered over something malleable, something of value, but no sounds left him. Some sort of panic crept into his heart like nothing he'd ever felt before, and was intensified when John's anger erupted out upon him, mimicking ashes that showered over the defenseless city of Pompei, and lead the citizens to their death.

"You know what_, Sherlock Holmes_?!" John's voice was loud, but shook with hurt, and was mostly tired. He hesitated, and his anger crumbled around him like a righteous monument being torn to the ground of which it was dedicated to, and he sighed, as if giving up. "I'll be in bed." Again, he hesitated before turning away toward the stairs. "_My bed_."

As soon as John disappeared up the stairs, Sherlock's anger caught a hold of him again, ripping him to his sore feet like some sort of vindictive puppet master that _was _him and _controlled_ him all at the same time. "God _damnit_!" Desperately, and with a fatally wounded sense of judgment, clouded only by the hate he felt for himself, he reached over the desk and with his heart aching for John's presence, and fingers trembling, and breathing uneven, and body hanging unbalanced from the few webs of humanity that he still clung to with the little hope he had been gifted – and held to like a lifeline – shoved the paperwork and pens, and empty tea cups, and fractured pieces of his heart to the floor in absolute disgust with himself and his obsession. "Just _damn it all_!" He shouted watching closely, and with short, shallow breaths, as the papers scattered over the floor.

Even in his bed a floor up, John could hear the commotion, but more so, he could feel it resonating deep within his chest, pain exemplified by the lack of Sherlock's faint scent, and the feeling of a mattress that had grown foreign over days of abandonment.

He shut his eyes tightly, and hoped that all would be right in the morning.


	6. Simple

**VI. Simple**

John rested his head on Sherlock's naked shoulder with a little, exhausted sigh. Sherlock shifted slightly, wrapping an arm around John's waist and making sure to hold him tightly. He grabbed at the blankets with his free hand and pulled them higher up over his and John's bodies as a chill from the open window ran over their sweat-dampened chests.

The detective found comfort in the feeling of the nicotine pulsing through his veins and energizing him in a crisp kind of way – granting him the clarity to clear his brain – and the feel of John's small breaths cooling the nook of his neck, and the way his body was so susceptible to comfort in John's arms and the way his mind…

Would just stop all its insufferable thinking.

"Sherlock," John mumbled, his voice far away yet right there simultaneously all in a way that both confused and intrigued Sherlock beyond belief and somehow managed to relax and intoxicate him all the same.

"Yes?" It sounded more like a demand than a question and Sherlock found himself upset with the hardness in his own voice.

"I don't think we've ever, uh.. Ever quite made love in my bedroom." John whispered. Unexpectedly, Sherlock's quiet laughter filled Watson's ears. He giggled uncharacteristically, and much to the doctor's annoyance, refused to even attempt a response beyond it. "What?" John questioned with an arched brow.

Sherlock's shoulders shook with the unspoken humor, disrupting John's resting spot. How was it that John could so effortlessly say something so damn ordinary, and simple, and plain, and behind it, hide the fact that he had been worried too? And the fact that the night had been filled with desperation, and the sex sloppy and frantic with both the men's intertwining panic and worry hanging over the bed like a thundering cloud, and god damn nearly revolutionary for Sherlock because he realized that he had just made, arguably, the best decision of his life which was to follow John Watson up the stairs and apologize. Sherlock Holmes laughed and breathed and rejoiced in the fact that for once, there was someone on the earth that could make him _feel_ _something._

"What's so funny?" John asked again, not attempting to stifle the annoyance seeping through the questioning tone in his voice. He sat up on his elbows to get a better look at Sherlock, giving in and finally chuckling a little to himself. "What's your deal all of the sudden?"

"John, I think," Sherlock was still laughing like a total fool, speaking in between gasps and snorts. "I think I love you."


	7. A Cup of Tea

John wandered into the living room around the same time that Sherlock placed a new nicotine patch on the inside of his left forearm. "I've been waiting for you."

"Yes _and?_" John observed Sherlock curiously. The man was perched on the couch, eyes closed lightly as the nicotine began its journey through his bloodstream and a pleasant buzz came about. His violin rested beside him, an obvious sign that he had been playing it recently.

"I have been in need of a caffeinated beverage, preferably warm; tea would be prime, but I will accept coffee nonetheless. Two teaspoons of sugar, hold the cream."

John scoffed. "You couldn't get up and make your own cup of tea?"

"No, I was mildly busy, but believe me, I did attempt calling for Mrs. Hudson, such a shame, she didn't seem to hear my shouts."

"That or she blatantly ignored them." John sassed as he placed his coat and single bag of toiletries on the chair nearest to the door, having just returned from purchasing them at a corner store down the block.

Sherlock finally opened an eye and peered at John. "Irrelevant, now come here."

"What?"

"Come here." Sherlock said once again, unusually patient with John's dreadfully oblivious remarks. Obediently, John strode across the living room and sat next to Sherlock on the small red couch, leaving approximately 1.3 feet of space in between them.

"Yes?" He asked uneasily, leaning away from Sherlock, unsure of his motives.

The detective closed the space between them with a sigh, "God's sake, John, you've seen me naked on several accounts and yet you struggle to sit beside me." He complained, now sitting so close that John could smell the stale-cigarette stink of the nicotine patches and that very faint, bittersweet scent of berries that Sherlock unexplainably had about him at all times. The detective's cold eyes stared directly into John's, so intensely that the doctor couldn't help but squirm under the gaze and glance toward his legs.

Sherlock's hands found their way to John's chest, thumbs rubbing idly at Watson's collar bones. Watson found himself being lured closer.

"You are so absolutely exhausting."

"That's definitely not the worst I've been called." Sherlock responded, leaning in close and pressing a light kiss against John's lips.

John hummed against Sherlock's mouth, and the detective reacted positively to this, his long fingers binding tightly about John's collar, and pulled hard on the fabric to draw his lover even closer. His thick, soft lips forced John's apart, and Sherlock did not hesitate to press his tongue into the doctor's mouth, exploring it freely and hungrily, as if he owned it. Watson grunted out a protest, but did not fight the detective's advances, those having grown so rare in the past couple of days that John wouldn't dream of denying him. Very abruptly, Sherlock pulled back and looked at Watson expectantly. John quirked a brow curiously before finally catching on to Sherlock's motives.

"For god's sake, Sherlock, fix your own damn cup of tea!"


	8. Phone Calls

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

There was a silence on the other side of the line – No – a lack of words because John's breathing was still barely audible through the mobile; the sound of it physically relaxed Sherlock, and somehow made everything feel alright when it very clearly wasn't. Of all people, he and John knew of the chaos in this world best, yet they could still experience the ease that would creep in, carried in each other's words and the simple notion that they might be breathing in unison.

And the silence was dragged on, and Sherlock felt he might scream if the words remained in their minds and stowed behind sealed lips, and –

"I love you." John mumbled through the phone, and for a second he sounded afraid.

"Where are you?" Were the only words that Sherlock's brain pushed out his lips when he longed to say so much more. And when no other words would wrap themselves around his tongue, he assumed his brain had simply stopped working, and for a minute he was ok with it and the notion of running instinctively because all of his instincts were telling him to locate John and he felt he may die if John wasn't under his cautious gaze or on his lips within seconds. These emotions felts like they were leaking out of Sherlock, and he had been rendered unable to contain them for the first time in a long time.

"Um," There was another pause on the other line, John obviously confused and a little upset. "I'm on my way home from the corner store– "

Sherlock stuffed his mobile phone into his pocket and dashed out the apartment door, heart aching for John's presence.

John decided he could forgive Sherlock when the man met him at the street corner and told him he loved him in person.


	9. Vindicated

"So, my dearest friend, John Watson," Mycroft began with a sickeningly false cheeriness. John was sure he had never seen the man with so much of himself out in the open. It was as if Sherlock's brother had completely forgotten to put on his typical pantomime – simply a costume to cover the real Mycroft beneath – or was it that Mycroft Holmes had grown so malicious and vindictive and jealous that it was impossible to stop those feelings from leaking about him like a poisonous aura?

John didn't have the chance to further analyze this before the next few words dripped out of Mycroft's venomous lips like a snake left to wrap hap hazardously around Watson's ankle.

"How does it feel to be the only person my brother has ever loved?"

**A/N: **

**Hey guys. Thanks for reading and reviewing my fanfiction. Just wanted to let you know that there will be a three chapter update coming soon! (Hopefully within this week!) **


End file.
